Rose (Flower Trilogy) (30 page)

He leaned close, his mouth brushing hers slowly, leaving no doubt this time. Giddy with exhaustion, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him even closer.

He was right. There was nothing else quite so delightful. She slid into the kiss, that wonderful heat building in her, making her head lighten, her stomach bubble with excitement.

“Keep going,” he whispered when he finally drew back.

Dizzily she trailed a hand along the cool leaves, the trodden dirt path hard under her stockinged feet. At the next dead end, she felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her into his arms. His fingers cupped her face, and as he lowered his mouth to meet hers, his woodsy scent filled her head. The morning was chilly, but he was so very warm and male.

He nibbled here, licked there, coaxed apart her lips. She surrendered all too willingly, his tongue in her mouth sending more heat spiraling through her.

“Kit,” she murmured.

“Hmm?” He kissed both sides of her mouth where her dimples would be if she were smiling.

“I think . . .” She was so lightheaded, her thoughts refused to come together. “Let’s keep going.”

She felt weak, so weak she could barely keep her hand to the hedges as she went along. Another dead end loomed ahead, and this time she turned to him before they even reached it.

He laughed low, his smile as intimate as a kiss. “I think you’re enjoying this maze more than you anticipated.” He reached out to tap her mouth, traced her lips, then trailed a finger down her chin, her throat, along the edge of her low decolletage. His gaze went a glittery green as his long finger found the valley between her breasts. She shivered and went on her toes to press her mouth to his.

’Twas a kiss to fall into, hungry, demanding. Her knees trembled, her throat tightened, and the heat in her middle grew into a burning ache. By the time he broke away, she was gasping for breath, and she couldn’t have held her hand to the wall had her life depended on it.

He scooped her up in his arms, carried her to the center, and deposited her on a bench.

She was sorry there hadn’t been more dead ends.

Feeling boneless, she placed her hands on either side of herself for support. ’Twas an oval, grassy space, a tiny hidden garden with two old trees and the bench between them, a secret place that exuded solitude and the scents of greenery.

Kit stood looming over her. “Told you we’d find the center.”

She leaned back on her palms, gazing up at him. “That always works?”

“Well, not necessarily quite so enjoyably.” He grinned.

“But yes, it always works. From a mathematical standpoint, it must.”

She shook her head, then stopped when it made her feel woozy. “I was never all that good at mathematics.”

“And I cannot speak anything but English.” He stepped back and leaned casually against one of the trees, looking wide awake and utterly handsome. “We all have our strengths, Rose. And our weaknesses. Don’t underreckon yourself.”

“You don’t,” she said, knowing it was true.

“I don’t what?”

“Underreckon me.”

“Of course I don’t. I couldn’t love a woman if I didn’t admire her as well.”

That single syllable,
love,
threw her. She was reeling under Kit’s onslaught of seductive actions and words.

And he admired her.

Did she admire Gabriel? She didn’t know. He’d proven himself kind and solicitous and generous, but he’d also kept a pawnbroker’s change. She was so tired and confused and dizzy.

Her knees still shaky, she stood and walked to the other tree, putting the bench between herself and Kit. She turned away, running her fingers down the trunk, smiling dazedly at the carvings made by others who had found their way to the center.

“Look at all the initials,” she said quietly. “Hundreds of them. Do you suppose all these people made it here using the left-hand rule?”

His low laugh sounded by her ear, surprising her. “No,”

he said from right behind her, his voice reawakening that heat in her middle. “I expect most of those people were lost for hours, both on their way in and out.”

She smiled, the only reaction she was capable of at the moment. “You’re fooling.”

“Maybe. You’re tired.”

“Definitely.” She felt his fingers on her ear, warm and sure, slipping one diamond drop free. Then his lips as he leaned close and drew the lobe into his mouth, suckling gently.

She let her head fall back against him, inhaling his scent, drawing it into her lungs as though it could sustain her.

Maybe it could.

“Romance,” he muttered under his breath, pulling away.

Or at least she thought she’d heard him mutter. She straightened woozily and turned to face him. “What?”

“Nothing.” He pulled his knife from his belt. “Who do you suppose made all these carvings?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

He moved around the tree, examining all the initials. “Do you think the King has left his mark?” He set his knife to the wood and started scratching. “His mistresses? Do you expect any two people have been here who fit together so perfect as we?”

She followed him around and stood, swaying slightly as she stared. He’d engraved
RA
and
CM,
and now he was busy surrounding both with a heart.

Her own heart melted. “Kit,” she whispered.

The knife dropped to the dirt as he gathered her into his arms, his mouth on hers tasting of heat and desire. Turning her, he backed her against the tree. He slid the second diamond drop from her ear and slipped it into his pocket, kissing her lobe, nipping it gently. And lower, following the line of her jaw to her throat, playing in that sensitive hollow that made her shiver.

Wanting to taste him as he was tasting her, she raised her hands to unknot his cravat. Slowly she drew it from his neck, placing her lips where it had been as it fluttered to the ground like a white flag of surrender.

And surrender she did.

His skin tasted of warmth tinged with salt and Kit, a heady flavor. Her toes curled into the turf. She slipped her hands under his surcoat and around him, leaning back against the tree, murmuring nary a word of protest when he hiked her skirts and slid a hand beneath to graze the smooth length of her legs.

No, not a word. She wanted it, wanted him, wanted him there where she ached. He moved closer, his hand moving higher, skimming the line where her legs met, coaxing them apart with his fingers. And then he was between them, an exquisite glide of sensation, stroking, teasing, driving her mindless with need.

Above, he met her mouth, his tongue mimicking what his hand did below, thrusting as he slid a finger inside her and back out. Sliding again, and again, and again. She worked her hands lower and between them, wanting to feel him, to learn the shape of a man, the shape of Kit, wanting to give him some of the incredible pleasure he was giving her.

But he pressed his hips hard against hers, denying her access. “No,” he whispered. “Not if you won’t have me.” His arm was still between their bodies, his hand between her legs, stroking relentlessly, making it hard to absorb his words. “I’ll not take risks. I’ll not dishonor you, no.”

“Yes . . . oh, yes . . .” Her voice went higher as she felt herself succumbing to the magic of his fingers. “Oh, please, Kit. Let me feel you.”

“Just feel, sweetheart. Feel what I can do to you . . .

every day, if only you’ll let me.”

She felt. She felt too much. She felt and felt until she went soaring over an edge, her awareness dimming, her knees buckling, her cries absorbed by Kit’s mouth over hers.

He held her for what seemed like a long time, rubbing her back and murmuring soft, senseless endearments while she slowly returned to herself.

At last she drew a huge breath and moved away, smoothing down her skirts, feeling like she should say something but not knowing what. “My earrings,” she finally whispered tremulously.

He dug them out of his pocket and dropped them, one by one, into her outstretched palm. “Did the duke give you these, too?”

His voice was husky and as shaky as hers. She swallowed and nodded.

“I’m not giving up without a fight,” he said low. “We’re too good together. I want you.”

God help her, she wanted him, too, and not only because his kisses made her forget who she was and what she was after. He was the only man she’d ever met who appreciated her for more than her beauty—who valued her for her intelligence, who was awed by her talent with languages. She wanted Kit more than she’d imagined a woman could want a man.

But in the end, she said nothing, because a duke had offered for her hand. And risked his life defending her honor.

How could she accept an architect over a duke?

The diamonds felt hard in her fist. “I think we’d best go back.”

“Yes.” He scooped his cravat off the ground, stuffed it into his pocket, ran a trembling hand through his hair.

She straightened her gown. “How do we get out? The right-hand rule?”

His expression lightened, and he almost cracked a smile.

“How about the rule of knowing the way you came in?”

“How many times have you been in this maze?”

“Just the once. But ’tis a pattern. Geometry.”

She nodded slowly. “You’re good at geometry.”

He met her gaze, his own steady. “You’ll find I’m good at a lot of things. Follow me.”

He led her out without one misstep.

Without running into one dead end.

Without any more kisses.

Later that day, Kit was in the midst of a calculation when a knock interrupted. “One minute,” he called, pausing to scribble down a number.

He rose and stretched for a brief moment, then padded across his small lodging to open the door. “Lady Trentingham.” He blinked. How had she found him? The courtiers weren’t lodged near Master Carpenter’s Court.

“May I come in?”

“Certainly.” He opened the door wider, very aware of his state of half-dress: no shoes, no stockings, no coat, no cravat. Just breeches and a shirt, the latter half-unlaced and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He started turning them down.

“No need to do that for me,” she assured him. “I’ve seen a man’s arms and feet before. And a chest.” Her brown eyes danced with mischief. “Has Rose seen them?”

“No!” he said quickly.

She gave a mournful shake of her head. “Then you’re not doing a very good job. However do you expect her to be consumed by lust if you’re always dressed to face a snowstorm?”

He couldn’t
believe
the conversations he found himself in with Rose’s mother. He waved her toward one of the two chairs that flanked the Spartan room’s small table, taking the other for himself. “I gave my word that Rose would remain chaste.”

“Of course.” She sat, fluffing her skirts. “But a little temptation would not be amiss. Have you tried some romance?”

“I carved our initials into a tree trunk. The mere act had me choking back laughter, but she loved it.”

“Excellent. You must do some more of that.”

“I’m a very straightforward kind of fellow, Lady Trentingham. I wasn’t raised here at Court. I’m not good at gallant gestures.”

She glanced at the carefully drawn plans he had spread on the table. “You seem creative enough to me. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll do just fine.”

Designing buildings wasn’t creative—’twas logical, mathematical. Certain requirements had to be met, certain loads had to be supported, certain shapes were inherently beautiful. But he’d learned by now that there was no arguing with Lady Trentingham.

“I’ll try,” he told her.

“Excellent. The fact that Rose refused the duke’s proposal after he dueled on her behalf—I take that as a very good sign.”

“The duel . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I realize

’tis not my place to say this, my lady, but matters at Court seem to be getting a bit out of hand. I think it might be best if you took Rose and left—as soon as possible.”

“We’re leaving tomorrow. Her friend Judith is marrying later this week, and she’d never forgive us if we missed her wedding.”

“No, I mean you should leave today. Before . . .” Hoping Rose would forgive him, he plunged on. “Are you aware that your daughter is in possession of a book? A very—”

“I Sonetti?”
she interrupted.

“She . . . shared it with you?” He couldn’t imagine a mother-daughter relationship like that, but then nothing about the Ashcroft family seemed normal.

Question Convention, he thought with an internal sigh.

Lady Trentingham’s lips quirked. “Of course she didn’t share it. But she’s carried it from place to place for days. I am not unobservant. You’ll find me the curious sort.”

Somehow that wasn’t surprising. “Then you’ll know why you must leave. Word has gone round that Rose has this book, and people—men—have decided she’s . . . she’s . . .”

“Wild? A wanton?”

“Yes,” he snapped. He didn’t want to think of Rose like that. And he knew ’twas not really true.

She sighed. “I’m aware of that, too. ’Tis unfortunate, and certainly not part of my plans. But she’s not in danger of being compromised—”

“I wouldn’t be so certain.”

“I’m watching her. If it makes you feel any better, keep in mind that those lecherous courtiers may be driving her straight into your arms.”

Perhaps she had a point that, in the scheme of things, all those men with wandering hands might be doing him a favor. But that didn’t mean he liked it. He couldn’t stand the thought of other men touching Rose, whether the attentions were invited or not.

“Take her home,” he begged. “As soon as I’ve convinced myself that everything here is right, I’ll come straight to Trentingham. Without these unwelcome distractions, I’ll be able to concentrate my efforts on making her find me irresistible.”

“Excellent. But we’ll leave tomorrow. Rose would never forgive me if she missed the masked ball. Even now, she is wearing her fingers to nubs sewing blooms on a gown.”

“Blooms?”

“Her costume. She’s going as a flower arrangement.”

Despite his worry, he smiled. ’Twas so Rose. “I thought she would be sleeping.”

“She did, for a while. But then she raided the palace’s gardens and set both our maids to work. The three of them are stitching madly.”